Chapter 73: University Lecture
The next day, German newspapers widely reported George's arrival and the banquet he hosted for company executives.
As expected, many of them also repeated his rags-to-riches story and praised his scientific achievements. Some early headlines leaned critical, focusing on his foreign identity and calling for his exclusion. But those didn't last long. As a shareholder of both the German-American Oil Company and United Steel, George had financial backing that most editors weren't eager to antagonize. Even the government wasn't likely to push away industries carrying American capital.
By the third day, the papers had pivoted — now describing George as a "visionary industrialist" and "pioneer of modern medicine."
That morning, June 1st, George looked out the window of his hotel room and saw a crowd of reporters lingering outside. He didn't bother acknowledging them. He had no plans to give interviews.
More interesting were the letters that had arrived: several universities, including Munich and Heisenberg, had sent formal invitations. The title "Father of Penicillin" had begun to stick, and the scientific community — especially in Europe — was eager to be associated with it.
Originally, George hadn't intended to visit any universities while in Germany. This leg of the trip was for personal matters. But with the invitation from Munich University in hand, he saw no need to invent an excuse. He called Professor Osborn, confirmed the exchange visit, and politely declined the other schools' offers.
The talk was scheduled for mid-June. With time to spare, George used the next several days to quietly explore the country. Germany had a long, fractured history — once the Holy Roman Empire, later unified under Prussia. Between wars and partitions, what endured was its culture. George visited two castles, walked through a few museums, and instructed his team to begin laying groundwork for antique acquisition and wine exports.
He also began scouting properties — one of the castles, in particular, seemed like the right place to install a Portkey. With everything in motion, it made sense to secure a foothold.
June 14th – Munich
George arrived in the Bavarian capital and went straight to a bar tucked into a narrow street near the city center. The bar was a front — purchased through a local agent a few weeks earlier, then quietly staffed with security personnel George had brought in. All of them had been put under the Fidelius Charm.
On the surface, it was an ordinary business. In practice, it served as a local stronghold.
George hadn't chosen Munich randomly. There was one professor here in particular, who was keeping an eye on: Abraham Erskine, a biologist at Munich University. In time, Erskine's research would give rise to the Super Soldier Serum. George knew where that path led — Captain America, enhanced humans, military-grade augmentation.
But right now, Erskine was just another underappreciated academic.
George had already sent a team to Augsburg to monitor and protect the Erskine family. Both locations — the bar and Erskine's home — were now linked to Portkeys. If things went wrong, George could appear at either place instantly.
The next morning, George arrived at Ludwig Maximilian University of Munich — a centuries-old institution nestled deep in the city's intellectual district.
After presenting his research on Penicillin and its applications, the exchange moved into open discussion. George declined a translator. His German was fluent enough, and in scientific conversation, translation often made things worse.
From the crowd, a voice rose.
"Mr. Orwell, hello. I'm Professor Abraham Erskine, Department of Biology. I've done some work on microbial influence and human development. Do you think it's possible — in theory — to enhance human physical traits beyond natural limits through biological means?"
The question hung in the room.
There wasn't booing, exactly, but the temperature shifted. George could feel it. Some students exchanged glances. A few leaned back in their chairs, half-smirking. Erskine's ideas weren't well-received here. He knew it. So did they.
George looked at the man. He wasn't tall. Wore an old coat. Carried himself like someone used to being dismissed.
But George saw the future he was carrying.
"Hello, Professor Erskine. The human body still holds more mysteries than answers. It's our job — yours, mine, and everyone in this room — to keep asking those questions.
Whether that kind of enhancement possible? Maybe it is who knows? We haven't found it yet. But that's the point of research, isn't it? To keep chasing what people call impossible — until it isn't."
Erskine gave a quiet nod.
The discussion continued for more than two hours.
That evening, the university hosted a banquet in George's honor. Faculty, guests, and students mingled in the grand reception hall. There were speeches, polite toasts, and the usual swirl of small talk.
George moved through the crowd at a steady pace, responding to introductions and avoiding long conversations. Near the back of the room, alone at a table with a half-empty wine glass, sat Professor Erskine.
No one else seemed to notice him.
George didn't approach. He already knew the man wouldn't leave with him — not now. Not yet. Erskine wasn't the type to abandon his work or walk away from his family just because someone powerful took an interest. George respected that.
From across the room, George raised his glass slightly. A quiet gesture.
Erskine looked up. Their eyes met for a second.
George held the glance, then turned away.
'One day, you'll be glad I was here, he thought. Even if you never realize it. '
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Spin-Off: A Quiet Shift
Munich, 1921 — From the Perspective of Professor Abraham Erskine
Abraham Erskine woke earlier than usual that morning.
His room was still dark, the Bavarian sun not yet slipping through the slats of his shutters. He stared at the ceiling for a few seconds before sitting up. He could already hear the gears of his mind turning.
George Orwell was coming to Munich University today.
To most of his colleagues, that meant handshakes, a few press photos, and another puffed-up guest lecturer speaking about money or medicine. But not to Erskine. Not to him.
He stood, stretched, and walked toward the small desk by the window. His notes were already arranged — not for a lecture he would give, but for one he hoped to hear. There were two papers he'd printed out on microbiological resistance and enzymatic uptake, each dog-eared, each scribbled with side thoughts and questions in the margins.
He wasn't planning to hand them over. Just... in case.
As he made his way to the university, Erskine passed the same corners and hallways he always did. The same statue of Maximilian, the same cracked steps by the biology wing, the same group of students who lowered their voices when he passed.
They didn't mock him outright, not usually. But he could feel it.
The polite glances. The awkward nods. Some professors saw him as eccentric; others simply avoided engaging with his ideas. Human enhancement? Genetic potential? It was nonsense to them — more fiction than science.
Even the students didn't hide it well. He'd catch them suppressing grins in lectures, whispering behind their notebooks when he outlined cellular absorption models or hinted at biochemical modulation.
But he wasn't stupid. He saw it for what it was — skepticism, sure, but also fear. They didn't know how to measure something they couldn't yet define.
Still, it got heavy some days.
He reached the main hall a little earlier than necessary. The chairs were still being adjusted. Flowers were placed at the front of the stage — modest ones. Not for the speaker, just standard decor.
And then George Orwell arrived.
The boy — no, young man—looked sharp. Clean suit, pressed collar, the kind of presence that didn't fill a room by force, but didn't shrink either. He moved with a quiet, steady rhythm. Not arrogant. Not apologetic.
Erskine sat down two rows from the front, heart beating just a little faster than he wanted to admit.
The presentation started. Penicillin.
To most of the audience, it was familiar material by now. They'd read the headlines, seen the photos of children saved, of soldiers treated. But hearing it from Orwell — from the man who found it, refined it, and brought it to the world — was different.
And he was so young. Barely past seventeen, by all official accounts. Some whispered he was eighteen now, others thought he might be older and just looked young. It didn't matter.
What mattered was that he had changed the entire trajectory of modern medicine.
Erskine watched the young man speak clearly, precisely — no wasted words, no dramatics. He didn't beg for admiration. He didn't need to.
Erskine felt something stir in his chest. Not envy. Not quite admiration, either.
Hope.
The lecture ended, and the Q&A began.
Erskine felt his hand go up before he could overthink it.
"Mr. Orwell," he said, standing a little as he spoke, "I'm Professor Abraham Erskine, Department of Biology. Regarding your view on the impact of microorganisms on the human body… I've done some related studies. Do you think we might, someday, enhance the body itself? Through chemical or biological means?"
A few heads turned. Some smirks. He could feel the ripple go through the room.
There he goes again — Professor Erskine and his wild theories.
He regretted it almost immediately. Not the question itself, but the silence after. The shift in energy.
But George didn't laugh. He didn't smile dismissively.
He looked at Erskine and gave a slight nod.
"The human body still holds more mysteries than answers," he said. "It's our job to keep asking.
Maybe we'll find something. Maybe we won't. But science doesn't begin with certainty — it begins with the possibility that everyone else might be wrong."
Simple. Measured.
Erskine sat back down, his fingers curled lightly against his knee.
It wasn't validation, exactly. But it wasn't ridiculous either.
It felt... enough.
The banquet that evening was typical — a little too formal, a little too loud. Waiters moved like clockwork. Music played from the far corner. People clinked glasses and tried to sound important.
Erskine stood near a side table, sipping wine he couldn't name. No one talked to him. A few nodded. One student walked by and gave him a brief "good evening, Professor" before drifting back to safer company.
He didn't mind. He'd grown used to it. The corner gave him space to think. To breathe.
Then, across the room, he saw Orwell.
George looked around the hall — a smile here, a handshake there. Moving like a man playing his role but not immersed in it.
Their eyes met briefly. Just a glance.
George raised his glass toward him.
Erskine blinked, then raised his own, mirroring the gesture.
That was all.
No speech. No promise. Just a quiet nod across a crowded room.
And somehow, it meant more than if he'd come over and said something flattering.
Erskine smiled — not for anyone else, just to himself.
Later, walking home through cool Munich streets, he thought about the question he'd asked.
He thought about how ridiculous it must have sounded to everyone else. The fantasy of enhancing the human body. Strengthening it. Evolving it.
But then he remembered Orwell. A boy who'd lost his parents in a flu pandemic — or so the papers said — and instead of breaking under grief, had built something no one else had. Penicillin. A drug that will go on to save thousands or maybe Millions and much more.
If that boy could chase a solution no one believed in, maybe so could he.
No more watered-down theories. No more hiding his work under polite labels.
He wasn't trying to please a committee. He was trying to find the truth.
And maybe, just maybe, someone out there believed it was worth trying.
Back at his apartment, Erskine placed his notes from the morning on his desk and started a new page.
This time, he didn't cross out the word enhancement.
George Orwell would probably never know what that small answer — and that simple toast — had sparked.
But it didn't matter.
Because while George thought he had affected Erskine, what he didn't know was that he'd been affected, too.
Just two men. A boy and a professor.
Passing each other in a moment of quiet understanding — without ever needing to say it out loud.
[END]